Trust me, in this day and age, it’s sicker not having panic attacks. Since when did pretending everything’s okay suddenly become the almighty norm?
Look. Babe. I know how this works. You get close to me, play the sympathy card, relate to me, we’re just two crazy, wacky Jersey girls. Take advantage that I did lose what probably was the love of my life. And you act like you care. But that’s just it, an act. Which is sick and twisted. I’d rather you arrest me and throw me into jail. But let’s get something straight. You will not get anything out of me. So why don’t you go read your manual and find the chapter on conniving c***s that don’t give a f*** about you or your feelings and then get back to me with some real tactics? Otherwise, get me a lawyer. As far as I’m concerned, my only statement to you is that I saw my boyfriend go brainless last night at dinner. I ordered the breakfast combo, and he stole some of my bacon. If you want any other details, the answer is suck a d***.
I’m not special. It’s Elliot. He’s the one with the plan, the one they’re taking seriously. You know, I always thought it was crazy we got away with this. I thought there was something special about me that made it happen. But it wasn’t me, Mobley, Trenton, or Romero. It was him. It’s always been him.